


The Brutal Providence of Life

by Gem_Gem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Altered Mental States, Borderline Personality Disorder, Dark, Dark John Watson, Dead Sherlock, Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Made Myself Cry, I'm Bad At Titles, Insanity, John is a Detective, Night Terrors, Psychological Trauma, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Tissue Warning, What Have I Done, Worth a read but heed warnings, dark humour, title may change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 16:10:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4355585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world can be cruel, but fate can be crueller still. </p><p>When the unthinkable happens, John does not take it well and is altered as a result.</p><p>WARNING: John has a lot of twisted and horrid thoughts during this story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Brutal Providence of Life

**Author's Note:**

> I got thinking...how would John react to Sherlock dying of natural causes, instead of jumping to his 'death'?  
> That train of thought created this story, but I had no idea where the muse would take me when I started it...
> 
> As it says in the tags, please do not read this if what is addressed here upsets you extremely. Things aren't going to get better in this story. There won't be a happy ending, but it might not be entirely bad either, just don't expect a lot of good things.

John looked over at Sherlock sprawled out on the settee with a frown, dropping the heavy bags of shopping on the kitchen counter. It wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to remain silent and unmoving for long periods of time, but John had a sudden and unexplainable sickening feeling, a jolt of unease that shot up his spine and made him walk over slowly. Sherlock had been in the same position he had been in since the morning when John had first noticed him; having thought Sherlock had slept there. John had made breakfast, tried to make conversation with him, and then had left for shopping with a grumble at finding the fridge almost empty apart from the plastic containers of body parts.

Sherlock looked pale, paler than usual, and as John stepped closer and called his name, he perceived the lifelessness of Sherlock’s hands and the immobile state of his chest. Dropping to his knees John grabbed for him in a surge of panic and choking emotion, touching the ice-cold skin of Sherlock’s wrist with a full body flinch. John checked for a pulse, scrambling for his throat with trembling fingers and bending close to check for breath he ultimately knew would not be there.

Sherlock’s eyes were half-open and glazed, pupils nonreactive and irises seemingly dulled; his mouth slack, lips parted, the bones in his face sharper and his curls cold where they flopped against John’s arm as he adjusted Sherlock on the sofa, tilting his head and beginning CPR. Sherlock's lips were cold and dry as he pushed air into him needlessly over and over and over, until John, panting and shaking, stopped to look down at Sherlock’s lifeless expression. 

John leaned back on his knees, covering his mouth with one hand and circling the other around Sherlock’s arm, and stared with wide eyes, moist with tears. Slowly, John reached into his pocket for his mobile and dialled without looking, lifting the phone to his ear the same moment a tear rolled down his cheek.

“Hello.”

“Greg,” John started, his voice shaking and gruff with grief. “I…I need you to come to the flat. Something’s happened…I…I could do with you being here.”

“What? What’s happened?” Lestrade asked, sounding instantly concerned and in movement. “Is it Sherlock? What’s he done now?”

John screwed his eyes shut and took a sharp breath, “Please…please just…just get here.” He whispered, hanging up only to dial for an ambulance after a stifled sob, tightening his grip on Sherlock.

He dropped the phone once he was done and leaned back over Sherlock, suddenly clinical as he checked for some sort of injury, feeling along Sherlock’s prone and stiff body, faltering when he noticed the livor mortis tingeing Sherlock’s normally pale back. John let out a long and shaky exhale and looked pained for a moment, stroking Sherlock’s cheek with the backs of his fingers and then pulling his hand away quickly, shuffling to sit back against the coffee table.

John stared at Sherlock unblinkingly, tears welling and rolling down his cheeks. He felt sick to the stomach and lightheaded with anguish, John couldn’t understand what had happened, how Sherlock had died, and couldn’t concentrate long enough to find out how long ago Sherlock had passed. Rigor mortis and livor mortis pointed to some degree at the answer, but John couldn’t make his mind work to calculate and remember the timeframe such things happened after death.

Did Sherlock die quickly? Did he die slowly? Had he been in any pain? What had happened since the other night to then?

He remembered talking to Sherlock the day before and remembered arguing with him about the state of the kitchen; Sherlock had been overly dramatic and fidgety, stomping his feet and tapping the armrests of his chair with his fingers, exclaiming to John that he was bored, that he needed something, anything, to stimulate his mind. He had paced the living room, hacked into John’s laptop to play havoc with John’s web history and emails, and then slumped to watch something about Sharks on the TV, complaining every now and then about something or other, sometimes things that had nothing to do with the programme he was staring at. John recalled his lively face, with his wrinkling nose, flickering eyes, pursing mouth, and the flush of his skin, and could barely hold back the resulting wail of heartache.

Sherlock had later turned to look up at him, when John had joined him in front of the TV, offering Sherlock a steaming mug of coffee, and he had smiled softly and then waved a hand at the screen, having changed the channel to ‘CSI: Miami’, and began an endless torrent of observations about the plot of the episode and how utterly wrong it all was. John had listened, albeit with a half-hearted glare, and then grabbed hold of the remote to switch it back to the Sharks once Sherlock gave multiple ways the episode should have ended and deduced how the entire season would end going by just that one episode. He had ignored Sherlock’s displeased expression and had been joyous to the fact that he had then gotten up and stomped away into the kitchen.

How John wished he hadn’t ignored him, that instead he had turned to face him and told him how frustratingly brilliant he was, and that if he just stopped sulking and asked Lestrade nicely, that he could have been given a nibble of a case just to shut him up; but John hadn’t known he’d never hear Sherlock prattle on again, hadn’t known the gesturing, the smiles, the frustrated faces, and the strop to the kitchen, would be the last time Sherlock would do such things. John recalled the last moment he must have seen Sherlock alive as he was making his way to bed; Sherlock had jumped onto the settee after John had vacated it and sprawled out, settling his fingers beneath his chin in his usual “thinking” pose, and John had mumbled a good night, to which Sherlock had instantly replied, like he mostly always did.

“Night, John,” he had rumbled, voice deep and rich and familiar. A voice John would never hear again.

Lestrade was loud and panicked when he burst into the flat, but John didn’t look at him, only waited for Lestrade to walk over and notice. Lestrade stepped close and leaned over Sherlock in confusion, and then jerked back in shock, looking at John with wide eyes.

“John--?”

“I think…I think he died sometime last night…or early this morning,” John muttered, still not looking at Lestrade. “I’ve called for an ambulance. They’ll…be turning up anytime now. They’ll take him and find out how he died.”

Lestrade dropped into John’s chair heavily with an unsteady hand to his face, “Jesus…”

“I should call his brother,” John carried on, unable to look away, “Mycroft would fasten the process, get the results quicker.”

“What happened?” Lestrade asked with a voice drowned in emotion. “Oh God…what happened to him? There’s…there’s no sign of a struggle…no…no injury that I can see…so what—?”

“The autopsy will find out,” John intoned, looking away from Sherlock long enough to see Lestrade wiping his face in anguish, his shoulders shuddering with his silent cries.

Picking up his mobile once more, John called Mycroft and explained what had happened, feeling a pang of sorrow at the soft static that he received in response. John apologised twice before the call was ended abruptly and John sighed, rubbing the tears from his eyes with a hitching sob. 

The ambulance arrived ten to fifteen minutes later and John watched through a blurred and distorted vision as they moved around Sherlock and then carried him out slowly and carefully. Someone crouched down to talk to him but he heard nothing but static and merely nodded and stood, walking with Lestrade outside. They passed Mrs Hudson on the way out and John’s heart stuttered, his throat closing up.

“I’ll talk to her,” Lestrade mumbled in his ear, voice still thick with sorrow.

John ducked his head; tore his eyes away from her paling face, and got into the ambulance with Sherlock, ignoring whatever else was spoken to him and reaching to touch where Sherlock’s hand was inside the body bag. The drive was smooth and relaxingly leisured, and John stared at where his hand rested, stared at the sight so hard that he was sure he’d never forget it for the rest of his life. John hoped and prayed for it to be a joke, for Sherlock to have somehow tricked him for some reason; for payback for ignoring him the other day, for an experiment into the grieving process, for a laugh, but Sherlock remained still and cold and covered, and worst of all, silent. 

He wasn’t sure if Lestrade would later meet up with him, but he was definitely sure that Mycroft would turn up, he had to and John needed him to. The thought of where they were going and what would happen once they got there, made John feel so suddenly sick that he had to lean forwards and put his head between his knees and fight the raising need to vomit. They’d strip Sherlock naked and cut into him, slice open his motionless chest and move around his insides, taking out his organs to inspect them one by one to find the underlining problem, leaning over him, invading his personal space, and treating him like an object rather than a person. John laughed aloud, shortly, madly, and took the offered sick bowl with the hand that wasn’t touching Sherlock; Sherlock and John had hovered over many bodies, invaded them, had stripped them naked with words as well as instruments, with a clinical detachment that came with routine. Sherlock had used bodies for his own means without much thought, whipping them and taking pieces of them in jars for his own little experiments, not bothered whom they used to belong to. It was his turn to be one of the bodies used and abused for scientific means, and the thought only made John feel worse and heave roughly into the bowl.

When the ambulance arrived at the hospital, John followed them out, trying not to take his hand away from Sherlock as they moved him through to the mortuary. They tried to keep John back, told him to wait and to contact any family members, but before John could argue the case, Mycroft appeared off to his side and said something that John couldn’t hear over the rushing in his ears and the painful beating of his heart. He didn’t want Sherlock to be alone. He wanted to be with him. Wanted to stay with him.

“John,” Mycroft whispered, placing a hand on John’s shoulder. “Come with me, John.”

John shook his head, unable to tear his gaze away from the closing mortuary doors and the figure of the coroner through a gap between them as the person stepped up to where Sherlock had been placed, “But…Sherlock, he needs me. I can’t just—”

“Come with me,” Mycroft insisted, and steered John around, walking him away from Sherlock and into a private room that John realised in the next second was a room many doctors would take family to give them bad news. “Sit down.”

John paced instead, wringing his hands and grinding his teeth, but when Mycroft’s hand shot out and pressed him down, he yielded with a shuddering breath and sat, looking first up at Mycroft, and then down at the floor, glaring at a speck of dust near the chair leg.

“You’re going to ask me a bunch of senseless questions now, aren’t you?” John muttered, sounding angry and choked on unhappiness. “Don’t bother—I don’t know what happened. I found him like that. I…I saw him last night, went to bed, came down in the morning and he seemed the same as before—He was in the same position as I last saw him, laid out on the sofa but I didn’t think there was anything wrong with that... I tried to talk to him but I thought he just ignored me, something that’s also not that unusual…”

“What time did you last see him alive?” Mycroft asked. “As exact as possible.”

John clenched his jaw and looked up at Mycroft angrily, “Do we have to do this now? You’ll get all your answers from the report.”

“The time, John?”

“Ten o’clock, possibly eleven,” John said through his gritted teeth. “I got up at half past eight this morning. There was no bloody milk in the fridge. Sherlock had put the fucking container back empty, like the arse he is; so I went out to get some more, as well as a few other things because there was literally nothing edible around. I was gone for longer than I had intended, those damn checkout machines held me up…when I got back I thought there was something wrong and I found Sherlock cold, unmoving, and stiff. I tried CPR, I…I tried, but he was long gone. He…he must have died sometime last night or early this morning and I…I didn’t notice…Oh God…”

Mycroft waited as John covered his face and trembled with a muffled sob, and then softly asked something else, “Was it drugs?”

John frowned up at him and then shook his head, wiping his eyes, “No…no. I checked him over. There was nothing external to point to how this happened. Whatever it was…it…its internal.”

Mycroft nodded slowly, his face unreadable, eyes hard and the line of his shoulders tensed; he didn’t sit down with John, but remained standing and stared into the distance, looking to all the world like a stone statue. John looked away from him and gazed down at his own hands, flexing his fingers and trying not to let the immense, insane, welling of grief drown him. He wanted to go to Sherlock; he wanted to be there for him as they dug into his body and poked and prodded and pulled out what made him.

“Stop it,” Mycroft suddenly said in a sharp tone that made John jerk.

“I need to see him. He needs me. He—”

“Sherlock is dead,” Mycroft interrupted, and hearing it aloud made John shiver violently in emotion, made him sick and faint with sorrow. “He’s not there, John. You said it yourself, he was long gone by the time you saw him.”

John felt his face twist and crumple, and he wailed abruptly, curling over his knees and weeping so hard he could hardly breathe. Mycroft moved closer in reaction and the sight of his polished and perfect shoes, made John clamp down on his next sob and ultimately shake with the suppressed feeling. John felt numb and hollow, but simultaneously overflowing with guilt, sorrow and anger; the anger was towards the world, towards fate, John couldn’t believe Sherlock had been taken away from him so suddenly, so cruelly. The world needed Sherlock Holmes, the world benefited from him, yet he had been viciously snatched away in a blink of an eye without reason. 

The scent of Mycroft’s cologne made him think of Sherlock’s unique smell, with the mixture of Sherlock’s shampoo and his own posh cologne; of the lingering aroma of chemicals from the multiple experiments he carried out; of the tinge of smoke from two or three sneaky cigarettes; and how he hadn’t smelt like Sherlock should have smelt at all when John had found him. Sherlock had been scentless and smelt like nothing but the air around him, even the scent clinging to his dressing gown and pyjamas had been weak and lifeless.

Memories of Sherlock burst behind his eyes suddenly and uncontrollably, and he gripped his knees so hard his fingers creaked as he remembered laughing with him, arguing with him, joking with him, fighting with him, running with him, and living with him. Sherlock had been a whirlwind, and John had been eagerly swept up along with him, enduring every nick and scratch from passing debris that tried but failed to follow and intervene with Sherlock in his constant and unyielding trek across London. John was battered and bruised from his life with Sherlock, and he was happier for it, had often been eager for it, and had grinned bloody and aching, and been ecstatic to experience more. John had always said he wanted a bit of normalcy in his life, but whenever he had been given a chance to have it, be it from there not being the right cases to capture Sherlock’s attention or because he needed to make a living besides what he did with Sherlock, it had always bored him, it had always dragged on and dulled his senses and made him lazy and unhappy; John had essentially experienced his own dark moods, granted they weren’t as bad and overly dramatic as Sherlock’s, but they had been there nonetheless.

John relived shooting the cabbie after only knowing Sherlock several hours, recalled how he’d unlocked the window without a second thought, how he’d aimed, waited for a breath, and how he’d shot without so much as a tremble, his eyes narrowed on the cabbie with a fury that churned in his stomach and exploded down his outstretched arm. He had enjoyed the jerk of the man’s body as the bullet had hit its mark, had smirked and stepped away from the window to escape before Sherlock looked for the shooter and people reacted to the noise. John almost wished that someone had killed Sherlock, so he could have someone to track and torture and execute in revenge; so he could look into their eyes as he shot out their kneecaps, shot off their fingers one by one, and to lastly shoot them through the throat so he could watch them choke and gag and drown in their own blood.

“John…” Mycroft murmured lowly, bringing John from his blood-soaked thoughts just before the door to the room opened and the coroner stepped inside, looking between them both.

“Mr Holmes?” The man said with a soft and sympathetic voice, his eyes still jumping from John to Mycroft and back. He was a short man in his late thirties with ginger hair and round, black-rimmed glasses, and John stared at him, hating that he was the one to take Sherlock apart and that he hadn’t noticed the spot of blood on his scruffy left shoe.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, turning to face him and giving him a look that made the man start speaking even though John had not be introduced to him.

“I’m incredibly sorry for your loss—I’ve examined your brother and have come to the conclusion that he suffered sudden cardiac death. It probably happened with no prior warning, he would have fallen unconscious and not been in any pain…”

John’s mind flashed with the recent memory of finding Sherlock on the sofa, his hands on his inert chest, and John choked on a ragged and wild laugh, cutting off whatever else the man was going to tell Mycroft. Sherlock had told John exactly how he had died and John had missed it in his distressed state, had overlooked the way Sherlock’s hands had been resting against his chest in the tell-tale gesture of pressing and grasping. John recalled Sherlock's expression; his eyes open and his lips parted, and felt a cold chill take him over. He had known, if only for a short moment, Sherlock had known what was happening to him and what it would result in. He had felt pain. He had known. He had died alone and had known he would do so. If John had been more aware and less jumbled with sentiment, he would have seen that, in fact, John would have been able to work out exactly how long Sherlock had been dead and would have been able to sort out the death more calmly, without the need to upset Lestrade or Mrs Hudson so suddenly.

Something shifted inside John and he glanced up slowly with an impenetrable expression, looking at both men and then gesturing somewhat dismissively to the man to continue. Mycroft frowned at him briefly but did not say anything, his attention still on the words being said to him.

“Your brother had some coronary artery anomalies, or a malformation of the coronary vessels, which are congenital abnormalities within the coronary anatomy of the heart. A lot of these do not cause any symptoms and so your brother was not aware of his condition,” The man went on. “…I clock his death to be around six o’clock in the morning…” 

“Nine hours,” John mumbled, with an emotionless huff of laughter. “He’d been dead nine hours before I had noticed—I suppose there wasn’t anything I could have done, unless I had been awake at six am, but how could I have not seen that he was dead when I first saw him? Stupid!”

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock’s voice said, echoing around his head in a deep, vibrating reverberation. “Practically everyone is.”

John snorted in agreement with a sneer that tugged painfully on his face and pushed up to his feet, “I want to see him.” 

“I don’t think—”

“I wasn’t asking,” John said, staring the man down and then stalking from the room with a dark expression. Unsurprisingly he noticed that he was at St. Bart’s and looked around, turning to head for the mortuary with determination, almost punching doors open on his way, and pushing passed a few people that didn’t move out of his path in time. They stumbled, bristling with exasperation, but John ignored them, ignored their muttered words, and slammed open another couple of doors before he came to his destination. 

Sherlock was covered with a sheet but John pulled it back after a slight hesitation and looked down at Sherlock’s face; his eyes had been closed and his clothes removed. John touched Sherlock’s cool temple with the tip of his fingers and held back the sudden need to weep and clutch at Sherlock’s shoulders, to shake him and scream and shout and curse him for leaving John alone; instead John traced down over one cheekbone and then dropped his hand to his side limply, his throat closing on the violent crawling of sorrow.

“Hello,” John whispered croakily and aimlessly, shuffling closer to the table. “Coronary artery anomalies, eh? Trust you to get something that occurs in less than 1% of the general population. I had to come and see you—I got sick and tired of listening to the blasted man talk. I assume Mycroft personally picked him to do the autopsy as quickly as possible, and probably by way of having some sort of dirt on the man’s sex life or something. In fact, I’m pretty sure that Mycroft intercepted the ambulance to make sure it arrived to the flat quicker, you know, and probably made sure that you were brought to that specific person without question or delay.”

“Probably,” Sherlock suddenly said, opening his eyes and staring at John. “I wouldn’t put it passed him.”

John jumped back in shock and fell into an empty table behind him with a loud clatter, “Sherlock?”

“Yes?” Sherlock replied with an arching of his eyebrow and then tilting his head in understanding. “Ah. Right. No, I’m not really talking to you.”

“…No?”

“No. You’re just not taking this well. Not well at all. I advise a trip back to your therapist what’s-her-name, get this sorted, because this isn’t normal, John.” Sherlock told him, looking only vaguely contrite. “You can’t talk to me.”

“I can’t,” John mumbled.

“No,” Sherlock sighed. “I’m dead. You can’t talk to the dead, John. This isn’t the Sixth Sense—Heh, see, now you should definitely know it’s not me you’re talking to, I wouldn’t know that piece of trivial nonsense.”

John stepped back up to the table and stared down at him, “No. No, you wouldn’t. I don’t think you’ve ever watched that movie, or any movie for that matter. Not useful, you would say. Not relatable to anything concerning the work.”

Sherlock watched him with glassy, dead eyes, and then turned his head to look down at his body, “Annoying as the man may have been, he’s a pretty good coroner. Nice neat lines. No obvious sign of rushing. You clearly had been staring off into space for longer than you thought, because this looks to have taken some time to do. Very precise. He handled me gently too, closed my eyes and adjusted my limbs.” 

“Stop it,” John said through his teeth, eyes drifting to the deep cuts in Sherlock’s exposed torso despite his overwhelming desire not to. Sherlock was correct about the straight, accurate way the man had worked, and John tilted his head as he tried to work out just how long the man had been doing his job for. Obviously Mycroft had chosen him for his excellent work.

“What’s going to happen with my brain?” Sherlock asked casually.

“What?”

“Do you want it? It’s what made me, after all. Everything that made me Sherlock Holmes is locked inside that brain of mine. My massive intellect,” Sherlock grinned. “You could ask for it. Put it in a jar. Oh, I’d like that. You could place me next to Billy the skull on the mantelpiece. What’s the treatment for storing organs again? Formaldehyde solution and alcohol, isn’t it?”

John shook his head and clenched his eyes closed, “Shut up!”

“John?”

Mycroft’s voice prompted John to open his eyes again with a flinch; Sherlock was motionless as he had been before, his eyes closed, and John stared at Sherlock longer than he knew was normal until Mycroft walked over and stood by his side. Mycroft looked down at Sherlock with a tightening of his mouth and eyes, and then reached out to cover him back up with elegant and careful fingers, turning John away from the table.

“Does Molly know?” John asked out of the blue as Mycroft tried to walk him away from Sherlock. “Wait! No…I don’t want to leave him just yet.”

“John, we discussed this. It is not Sherlock any longer—”

“What are you going to do with him? Did he have a will? Hang on, this is Sherlock—did you write a will for him?” John asked, pulling away from Mycroft to stand back beside the table, his hand automatically seeking out Sherlock’s under the sheet. “I want something of his.”

Mycroft gazed at him silently, pointedly ignoring John’s hand on Sherlock’s, and then lifted his chin, “John, I suggest you go home—”

“No,” John said shortly, digging his fingers into the sheet to push on Sherlock’s cold knuckles. “If you don’t see Sherlock as Sherlock anymore, then you’ll have no problem giving me what I want.”

“You are not thinking straight,” Mycroft tried. “It’s understandable, given the distress, given the situation…”

“He’ll only decompose in the ground. Waste away to nothing. Be nothing. He should leave something, I reminder that he was here—I want his brain.” John said, inwardly shocked at how calm and emotionless he sounded. “He clearly doesn’t need it anymore. Does he? You can take everything else, as you’re probably going to. Take his clothes, his books, his violin, his laptop; I don’t care. I need this. I need him.”

Mycroft’s face stiffened and darkened, “Go home.”

John wanted to argue, wanted to stay, but clenched his mouth and turned to uncover Sherlock again, petting the cold curls of his hair and stroking a cheekbone. He wondered about his skull for a fleeting moment, wondered what it would look like stripped of flesh and staring from a shelf, and blinked, withdrawing quickly. John had seen death most of his life, had seen people literally die in his arms, under his hands, but he had carried on, he had pushed it all aside to do his duty, to help and protect and serve; later the memories, the feelings, the sights, smells and sensations, had seeped out into his dreams, twisting them into nightmares that kept him from sleep and drenched him in sweat, but still he had pushed them aside. However, Sherlock’s death seemed to have loosened something, had unlocked the box he’d pushed to the deep corners of his mind, brought forth everything he had tried to forget, to delete, and it was at that moment affecting him. John gaped at the still figure of Sherlock and shivered, feeling sick and scared and miserable and angry and demented, and fled when Sherlock’s mouth twisted up into an impression of a smirk that stretched the dead pale skin of his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously some may think John would react more badly to a suicide. Yes, seeing a friend commit suicide is not pleasant, at all, but finding out that said friend was dead in front of you and you didn't notice, is another thing altogether. Of course, this is fictitious and so I can make poor John feel and react however I want, but I still think he might not take that news very well, considering he is a Doctor and has seen many dead bodies in his life to know the difference between someone who is alive and someone who is dead, yet he noticed nothing. It happened without warning, he had no time to brace himself for it, no time to think about it, no time to try and stop it, no time to talk or hear Sherlock for the last time; it just happened and he didn't know and was blind to it when presented with it.
> 
> I shouldn't have to explain myself here, but I just want people to know where I'm sort of coming from with this idea...if that makes any sort of sense.
> 
>  
> 
> Feedback fuels me!


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